


Cold Pressing AU: Base Chapter 5

by Alex_Quine



Series: Cold Pressing AU [5]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, Mpreg, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 22:16:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2749109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex_Quine/pseuds/Alex_Quine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boromir returns to Minas Tirith seven years late and not alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Pressing AU: Base Chapter 5

When they walked into its courtyard the next morning leading the horses, Boromir could see the change in the lodge; shutters opened and the quiet bustle of a few capable servants had brought it to life, yet it was private still. They were shown to rooms readied for them and Boromir took the opportunity to bathe before joining the company, gathered in a room bright with sunshine from windows on three sides, where Celond had him strip and lie flat on the top of a long table.   
  
Celond spent some time examining him and seemed satisfied that his travels had not taken too much from his body. “My lord,” he said, “we can do this tomorrow if you desire it. All is ready, but you must understand what you face,” and as Boromir dressed, once again he laid out for the men the steps he meant to take. Faramir, hearing the details for the first time, gripped the arms of his chair and breathed soft, more fearful for his brother than he had expected.

“My first and simple choice, is to loose you and sew up the sack,” Celond continued, “but in truth until we begin to work we cannot know exactly how the scarring knits together and it is possible that there may have been damage we cannot see that has added to the way you are tied down. You know that the men of Harad have a fashion amongst their warriors to cut away this skin,” and his fingers ghosted lightly against the foreskin. “It is done when a youth comes of age or when he kills his first foe and we know that the wound can be readily healed, although with care. If I cannot free you or cut away the scarring without leaving too much damage I would wish to…”

“…turn me Haradrim,” growled Boromir, but he nodded and then met Aragorn’s gaze.

“If he should do that, I would dress you as they dress their warriors, with gold at your wrist and ankle,” soothed Aragorn.   
  
“We must do this work while you are awake my lord. The pain is a signal to me that we do not stray from our course. If you should lose the pain, then we must know, for great danger lies that way.”

Faramir took in a shaking breath, but Boromir went to enfold him in his arms, saying, “Little brother, this pain is for me a blessed trial.” And he kissed him lightly on the cheek.   
  
Through the rest of that day the three men walked in the grounds surrounding the lodge, enjoying the harvest sun on their faces. Boromir roughly dug in Sam’s bundle of apple seedlings to a sheltered place, and they talking quietly of small things.

After supper, Celond appeared in the parlour with a sleeping draught. “I need you fully rested, my lord,” he said, handing him a cup containing a dark liquid. Boromir swallowed it down protesting, for the taste was bitter, but the final few drops from Aragorn’s flask of minuvor on his tongue smoothed his brow, and as the drug began to overcome him, Faramir and Aragorn took him to his bed, attended him and laid him down on cool sheets.   
  
“Arin – where is Arin?”

Aragorn lifted him up to place another pillow at his back.

“He is gone on a visit to Nan.” Aragorn patiently repeated and Boromir sighed and lay back, eyelids heavy with sleep. “Legolas is with him and Beregond has lent them a pony his daughters have outgrown. If he gets on well with it, Legolas will find him something for his own.”

“You know that our brother-in-law will feel slighted if he is not consulted about this.” Faramir stroked the hair out of Boromir’s eyes, as Boromir fought to keep them open.

“You’re not putting him up on one of Eomer’s great beasts…I won’t…allow…” His voice trailed away and he slept.   
  
In the morning Celond would allow him no food other than a cup of sweet wine in which he had mixed a powerful herbal draught to quiet him. Boromir watched as though through a window at another man as they spread-eagled him and tied him along the heavy table with soft ropes, but so tight that he could move no more than his head from side-to-side. Then his brother carefully shaved his groin, whilst Aragorn knelt beside his shoulder and, turning Boromir’s head gently so that he could gaze into his eyes, told him stories of what Arin and Rullo had been doing in his absence.   
  
The healer was laying out his gear on a side table, running thin blades through the flame of a lamp and pouring raw spirits over his hands. His assistant was heating the ends of long steel pins in another fire and placing hot water, salt and clean cloths to hand. When Faramir had finished, the man came forward with a cloth dipped in the spirits and wiped the freshly shaved skin. It stung, particularly where the flesh was raw and a tear leaked from Boromir’s eye. Aragorn wiped it away with the pad of his thumb and took it into his mouth to taste.   
  
Celond approached the table to speak to him. “My lord, you know what I must do and why you must be awake through it. These men will hold you, for a sudden movement could cause the knife to cut where I cannot heal nor stem the bleeding, even to the forfeit of your life. If you can be still of your own volition I have the best chance of being quick and neat. Try to keep your breathing even. Do you understand me?” Boromir inclined his head and his eyes sought Aragorn’s gaze again.

Faramir placed a leather strap between Boromir’s teeth and lay down across his brother’s torso, his full weight pinning him down. Aragorn cupped his scarred cheek in one hand for a moment and then went to his feet, kneeling on the table-top, straddling his legs, his hands gripping Boromir’s thighs. The men could still see one another up until Celond and the assistant bent over Boromir to work and, just before they began, Aragorn dragged his thumbs over the muscles of Boromir’s thighs in recognition.   
  
A gasp and a ragged intake of breath signalled the beginning of pain that flowed crimson around and through Boromir. He fought not to tense but to melt, to breath into it, becoming dazed with the sensation. Above him, Aragorn could feel the tears trickling down his own face, but still the thighs below his hands felt pliable. The only expressions of Boromir’s agony were the soft groans that issued around the leather strap in his mouth. Faramir laid his head to his faintly trembling side and prayed to Eru for his brother’s life.   
  
The healers were undeniably nimble. Once he was done with the knife, one-by-one the assistant handed Celond the white hot pins, with which he stemmed the bleeding and then threw them done into a bucket of water that hissed and steamed. The smell of burning flesh scoured Aragorn’s nostrils. Now Celond was bent close over his patient with fine needles and thread and finally the assistant poured a liberal measure of the raw spirits over the whole, which caused Boromir to cry out for the only time, a choking scream, and they were swabbing the excess liquid away, binding him firmly, covering all in oilcloth and packing his groin in cold, wet cloths to reduce the swelling.   
  
Celond motioned Faramir to rise from his place. He untied Boromir’s arms and Faramir and Aragorn supported Boromir’s head and shoulders as Celond fed him a few spoonfuls of warm mead. Then they laid him down again, with a small pillow under his head. Celond looked closely into his patient’s eyes and seemed satisfied with what he saw.   
  
“I think that we have both done well,” he told Boromir, “but we will leave the ropes, loosened, on your ankles for the time being. I have cut away the scarring to the sack that was holding you close and taken a deal of the skin from your sex besides. It had been badly torn and had healed worse. The flesh will swell and there will be pain for some time, but we can control that. My lord, for now you will have more of the chasteberry liquor. You must not harden, but so that the healing flesh of your sack knows how far to stretch, we will bind you, using honey and oils to protect the new skin. You know, my lord, that there is every hope that you will sire more children.”   
  
At this last, Boromir tried a small laugh, which turned into a cough and a wince. Celond told him to rest and he and his assistant began to clear the room of their tools. Faramir drew two chairs up beside the table, whilst Aragorn poured them cups of mead and they settled down, one on either side, to talk him into slumber, keeping their voices low.   
  
All day they watched, silent as he slept, fetching and carrying for Celond or his assistant as they returned periodically to change the cold wet compresses or check that all was still dry under the oilcloth.   
  
As evening came they wakened him and coaxed him to a little broth and more mead, sweetened further with extra honey, dressed his torso in a warm shirt and laid a soft blanket over his feet and calves. Celond came to check on his patient before retiring for the night and brought a sleeping draught, which he swallowed with minimal fuss.   
  
Faramir had closed the shutters, fetched more wood and was banking up the fire to keep the room warm, whilst Aragorn eased him towards sleep, soothing the old scars on his chest with supple fingers coated in Celond’s healing oils and with warm praise for his bravery, for the stoutest of hearts.

“The pity is, “ he said, “that we must be so secret and no-one will know the true valour of Boromir of Gondor in the face of unthinkable pain.” Boromir chuckled and yawned, mumbling, “You jest…and I’ve met worse pain and for longer.”   
  
The drugs were sinking him further into a stupor; the slightest movement of his head was exhausting, thinking an effort beyond him. Aragorn looked down at the neat, faint scar across his belly below the navel. It was old and ran under the Warg marks, but it had been a great wound.

“Boromir,” he said softly to the drowsy man, running his fingers along the silvery line. “Where did this long scar come from?”   
Boromir’s eyes tried to focus on Aragorn’s face. “Arin,” he sighed, “your babe was a full-term child.” And his eyelids closed against Aragorn’s white face and horrified gaze.   
  
For a long moment the chamber was silent but for the crackle of the fire. Faramir wondered if Aragorn might faint, he looked so pale, stood clutching the edge of the table.   
“How could this be? We lay together a handful of times in Lothlorien.”   
Faramir took pity on the stunned man.   
“It is a place of enchantment.”   
“For a man to carry a child! I have heard in legend of Elven lovers…” 

Faramir had wondered this many hours and stroked his brother’s sleeping face, offering Aragorn the only explanation he had been able to conjure up.

“When Arin was conceived you had no heir and were set on a quest given small chance of succeeding. Perhaps Isildur’s blood took what chance was offered to it…and our Mother, Finduilas, was of the true Dunedain…blood on both sides.” 

Aragorn looked into the eyes of the man opposite, seemed to see him for the first time as his lover’s brother and an expression of guilt swept over his face.

“I cast him into the river. I was almost the death of him…of them.” This time he did sway and Faramir caught him, sat him down on the stone floor and slumped beside him.

“Aragorn,” said Faramir, as the shadows lengthened around them, “ask him when he wakes.” He shook his head lightly at Aragorn’s keen glance, “It is not my tale to tell.” Faramir arose to fetch oil lamps for the darkening room and Aragorn sat still by his love’s side, waiting to hear his fate.   
  
The next day, although Celond remained pleased with his progress, contained long hours of discomfort for Boromir, and Aragorn judged it not the time to speak. Instead, with Faramir, he helped care for the man. Celond had them untie him and support him as he stood and walked slowly to a garderobe to make water into a bowl so that the Healer could check it for blood.

Satisfied with what he saw, Celond stood by as his assistant stripped off all the dressings except the one on his sex, cleaned the wounds of dried blood, laid on soothing salves, re-bandaged and re-laid fresh cold compresses. He was bound to support the weight of the healing sack, but his cock lay free above the linens and through the aches Boromir felt some renewed freedom, no longer tied down by his own ruined flesh.   
  
He ate sparingly, mostly broth, but Celond allowed him small ale and warm mead to contain the drugs that kept him dozing most of the day. Aragorn had packed some of his lightest silk robes and his brother helped him dress. They sat for a while in the garden and after the evening meal gathered by a lit fire in his room, to talk and listen to Aragorn read to them. He had ordered a crate of volumes brought from Boromir’s library and told them an old tale of lovers torn asunder by war who finally re-unite.

“How did you know what to bring, amongst so many books?” asked Faramir later.

“I sat in his chair and stretched out my hands and took everything within simple reach,” replied Aragorn, turning over a history of Gondor, rich with hand-coloured maps.   
  
Over the next few days, Boromir’s strength grew, although he was still cautious in his movements and Celond remained pleased with how the flesh was knitting. His body was less swollen; all his bandages were now changed daily, and he would walk in the garden, sometimes sitting on a sheltered bench that offered a view across the plain towards Minas Tirith.

It was there that Aragorn found him one afternoon and sat down beside him. The chasteberry potion, whilst it sated his desires, did not dull the love Boromir felt for the man beside him and as they sat and looked out over the countryside in the late afternoon sun, he felt Aragorn lay a roughened, but gentle, hand over his and Boromir moved his fingers slightly so that they could inter-twine. Although they were oft times able to sit together content in silence, after some minutes Boromir knew that his love was holding back words and squeezed his hand, granting him permission to speak.   
  
“The first night, when you lay on the table, do you remember my tending the weals on your chest with the healing oil?”   
“Barely, love. Celond’s potions are strong and I will admit to weariness that had turned my bones to water.”   
Aragorn hesitated and then he said quietly, “I asked you about the great scar across your belly and you told me.”   
  
As Boromir’s fingers stiffened under his, Aragorn kept hold of his hand, but slipped to his knees to gaze up into Boromir’s face. Boromir’s expression was a mixture of fear and love and confusion that tore at Aragorn’s resolve and he brought Boromir’s fingers to his lips and then to his forehead, silently pledging himself to keep this man and their son, in whatever way he might.   
  
“His eyes are your eyes,” whispered Boromir, taking an uncertain step into the gulf that had opened up before him, but one where the kingly man holding his hand offered himself as the only strength that Boromir thought he would ever need.   
  
“Faramir would not tell me what happened to you after Amon Hen.”   
Boromir leaned forward and stroked Aragorn’s hair.   
“The River would not take me, love.”   
  
He thought for a moment. “Or mayhap it would have claimed me as dead to this world, but it would not carry away the child, the spark of Isildur’s flame that flickered in me.” He smiled reassuringly to Aragorn. “I do not remember you putting me into the boat,” and Aragorn looked down to hide the tears that came unbidden.

“I remember the sound of Rauros. There was a rainbow mist of water and a roaring like a great beast and then a great beast came, and lifted me from the boat. A great black bear with sopping fur lifted me up as though I was a child myself…a Beorning. I had only heard of Beorn in song and this Beorning had ranged South, but it carried me for days together until we came to a home-place, a hall surrounded by a meadow, thick with flowers and the bees, Aragorn! Great black and gold jewels that flew. They fed me on cream and soft bread and honey and some golden dust that they would blow over my tongue. It tasted like honey and I breathed it in. And I grew fat. They had great skill as Healers, although no skills alone could dull the pain when our son was born, but their closing of me was neat. When later I needed healing again, I bethought to the Beorning and tried what the honey could do.” He paused and drew a trembling breath as though the long-held tale had pulled at his insides in its passing. “Celond would enjoy that tale, but he must not hear it. Aragorn, we cannot call Arin ours to the general eyes of men. I would not have him marked by those who will never know enchantment and so fear it.”   
  
Aragorn dropped his head to his chest, was still a moment and then said sadly, “He is a child of the blood of Isildur’s line. It should be enough… How many know of his making?”   
  
“Frodo knows. I told him and the wise hobbit said I should tell you. And Arwen.” Aragorn’s face was blank. “Your Queen saw you in him the first day we came home. I could not dissemble before her, but I have come to believe that the long lives of Elves have made some of them wise and some of them compassionate. She has never treated either of us with less than kindness and courtesy…and perhaps she gives her blessing.” Boromir drew from within his shirt the wine-dark slip of silk and unwrapped it. “When I stopped here on the first night of my journey, this was in my bedroll. It has been my help-meet.” He took the knot and placed it in Aragorn’s outstretched palm.   
  
The King gazed at the tiny thing and then looked up at Boromir. “This is Elven work.” As he handed the knot back to Boromir, Aragorn rose from his knees and sat beside him once again and they looked out across the valley.   
  
“You have cared for Arin all his life. I will be guided by you, but I will not be less to him than his uncle.”   
This time it was Boromir who brought Aragorn’s fingers to his lips.   
“We will find a way through the years. And I will be your Steward.”   
  
Another two weeks passed, Faramir went back to Ithilien, promising to return later and to bring Arin with him, and Celond proclaimed himself well pleased. To Aragorn’s eyes, Boromir seemed younger, as though weight had lifted from his shoulders and his eyes sparkled, his step became lighter. The bandaging was gradually done away with, although the daily ritual of oils remained, the tiny stitches had gone and now the chasteberry liquor was lessened. 

Celond had gone back to the Houses of Healing, leaving his assistant to watch over him, but had returned this day to oversee the final steps. Boromir was laid naked on the long table. This time he was alone with the Healer. Celond pinched some skin on the inside of the top of his right thigh, and nodded in satisfaction when the sack beside it twitched. “We need to tempt your body to try out its full compass, my lord. Tonight you will have a small amount of the drug and for the next few days and we will see what sleep can do.”   
  
It was on the morning of the third day that Boromir awoke, with a familiar ache in his groin, moved gently in his bed and gasped as the still tender head scraped across the bedcover. He was giddy for a moment, but his breathing gradually calmed and after a few moments he drew back the sheet. He did not dare yet touch, fearful that to touch would be to come, and that might be too much for the newly healed skin, but he saw himself strong again.   
  
Over the next few days, appetite returned and then hunger, but still he would not bring himself to completion and now, each time he hardened, there was a heavy aching in his sack. Then one night he awoke, body spasming, drowning in pleasure and sudden agony too and found his sheets spattered with a thick and blood-spotted nightfall. He could not tell the assistant, and was bewildered at his newly-found shyness, but confided in Aragorn as they walked, who smiled warmly at him. “Boromir, your body wishes to return to its old, good, ways and must clear the stale seed.” Aragorn saw heat come to his cheeks and Boromir felt himself a callow youth again, learning his body in confusion and shame, but Aragorn would not let him brood on it, saying, “I will prepare a syrup of poppies to blunt the pain.”   
  
It was as he sat with Aragorn over the noon meal the following day that a servant entered and whispered low in the King’s ear, who cast down his knife and rose from the table, catching at Boromir’s sleeve, saying, “We have guests,” and dragging him to his feet. They walked out into the yard and Aragorn led him to the gate, from where he could see the greenway to the lodge. Some half-league distant three riders approached. Faramir’s big roan was well-known to him and Legolas’ grey stepped as daintily as ever, but between them, sitting very upright on a sturdy chestnut pony with a flaxen mane that swept to its knees, was a small boy, managing the reins of his first mount with pride and concentration.   
  
Boromir began to run towards them and saw the boy catch sight of him, heard him exclaim to Legolas, who waved him on, and saw Arin urge his pony into a brisk trot. Boromir met him at the top of a small rise and caught at the pony’s rein as Arin brought it to a halt. “Adar!” Arin’s arms opened wide and Boromir dragged him from the pony’s back and hugged him fiercely. “I have missed you boy!” Arin wrapped his arms around his father’s neck and kissed him, hardly drawing breath through a tumbling monologue in which his joy at seeing his father again was entwined with news about Nan and Rullo and the pony, which was ‘only a loan and I have to give it back.’   
  
The others of the party had arrived and Aragorn had caught up the wandering pony. As Boromir went to greet Legolas and to thank him, he saw in the corner of his eye, Aragorn gently lay his hand on Arin’s head, whilst the child, uncaring of his presence, chattered to Faramir. Then Arin turned to the King and said “Can I get up now please?” and the man nodded, dumbly, lifted him onto the pony and helped him find his stirrups and gather up his reins. Arin thanked him politely, meeting his gaze a little shyly and then turned his mount away to go upsides Arod again. As the riders went ahead to the lodge, Boromir and Aragorn followed slowly. Boromir slipped an arm around Aragorn’s waist. “He will come to know you as more than his King, I promise you this, on my life.” 

The riding party stayed one night before returning, Arin and Legolas to the mill for a few more days of liberty and Faramir to Ithilien. As night came on, Boromir took Aragorn by the hand and drew him to the boy’s bedside, where Boromir and Arin lay, propped up by pillows. Aragorn told them a tale of adventure in Gondor long ago. Arin’s eyes grew round and if Boromir knew it to be one of Thorongil’s exploits, he said nothing.   
  
Boromir and Aragorn left the lodge two days later, riding into Minas Tirith in mid-afternoon, Aragorn bare-headed, so that the first recognition by the guard at the main gate had trumpets pealing all the way up before them. Boromir rode into the palace courtyard with Aragorn, where he jumped down to take his King’s stirrup and help him dismount before the grooms could reach them. “That was a Steward’s courtesy,” murmured Aragorn for his ears only, “and you do the King honour, but I would re-shape the title for this Fourth Age… no-more the servant’s role.”   
  
So saying, the King entered into his palace and Boromir strode down to the Sixth Level, where he went briefly to Celond, and thence to open up the house, although in truth all was ready ahead of his arrival.

Aragorn spent time in speech with Arwen and playing with Eldarion. The King and the Queen strolled, arm-in-arm, in her garden and at the last she kissed his lips and sent him to his Steward.   
  
Sunset found the men walking together in Boromir’s garden, arms entwined. They had not been lovers since before Amon Hen, but Aragorn thought he could remember the very feel of Boromir’s weight in his arms, the way that Boromir had laved at throat and hip, made him gasp and beg, and now the man’s touch made his body thrum once again. He stopped on the path and caught Boromir to him firmly.   
  
Aragorn bent his head into Boromir’s neck, drawing in his scent, then he stroked the hair curled around the back of an ear and asked “Will you lie with me tonight, Boromir of Gondor?” “That I will,” replied Boromir, meeting his gaze, “although…” and laughter bubbled in his throat. Aragorn tilted his head sideways in query and his smile matched Boromir’s answering grin.   
“Although…?” he asked.   
“It will seem strange to lie together in a bed…”   
“We could sleep on the floor, or out here…”   
“I am a delicate soul in need of tender care.”   
“Indeed,” Aragorn said dryly, but he caught Boromir’s mouth in the softest of kisses, that barely brushed his lips with warmth.   
  
In his chamber, Boromir had opened up the long shutters leading onto the balcony, and the last of a harvest breeze blew warm into the room to send the oil lamps flickering. Warm water scented with spiced oils had been poured into the tub before the fire and Aragorn lay soaking as Boromir massaged his shoulders, his fingers sweeping over damp skin and taut muscle. Boromir had watched him undress earlier for the first time in many years and wondered anew at the dark beauty of the man. Perhaps there was the lightest dusting of silver in the hair on his chest, to match the streaks in his hair, but he was muscled and lithe still and to Boromir’s eyes the ideal of a warrior.

Boromir had made his own preparations earlier, quickly and as unobtrusively as possible, whilst Aragorn stood on the balcony with a glass of cool wine. It was one matter to display his shattered beauty to Aragorn in the presence of healers, but now he would stand before him as a lover and Boromir found himself draping his damp frame loosely in a silk robe, uncertain anew of how his body and his love would respond.   
  
As the water cooled Boromir held out a towel which had been warming before the fire and let Aragorn step into his arms, whilst he dried him. As he worked down his body he came to his cock, stood stiff before him, laid a brief kiss to the rosy tip and quickly skimmed past it to dry down his long legs. When Boromir stood up again before him, Aragorn captured him very gently by his erection, laying it besides his own in his large palm. For a moment the two men looked at the now very visible difference between them.

“You look very sleek and strong, like Arod,” said Aragorn. Boromir’s lip trembled with laughter, “If you are comparing me to a horse…” then Aragorn took the breath from him completely, by moving him back slightly with both hands on his shoulders, lining up the heads of their cocks to touch tip to tip and sliding the skin on his own erection out and over the head of Boromir’s cock. Boromir gasped and laid his forehead on Aragorn’s shoulder, smelling the spiced oil that reminded him of the pinks in Frodo’s garden, whilst the older man gently worked them together, sliding the edge of his foreskin around the rim of Boromir’s head, who groaned and rolled his hips, causing Aragorn to gasp in his turn.   
  
Sparks of pleasure were jumping in his body and behind his eyes, so that he did not murmur when Aragorn broke their hold and enveloped him in warm arms, sliding the robe off his shoulders so that they pressed together all along their bodies. Aragorn’s hands were more insistent now, caressing his shoulder-blades, tracing long muscles, grasping his buttocks. His King was breathing hard and as their eyes met, long years fell away in a shared hunger.

Aragorn would have pressed him back onto the bed, but Boromir resisted, turned his back on him and bent to take hold of one of the massive posts of the bed. Aragorn stilled for a moment, a hand laid on his flank and gazed at the golden back. There was not a scar, nor a blemish, anywhere, only supple muscle and velvet skin and he understood what it was that Boromir sought to offer to him.   
  
Very gently Aragorn reached up, unclasped Boromir’s hands from the carved wood and turned him into his embrace again, saying “Love, I could not wish for the man I knew back here with me again. I love the man before me, shaped by time and trial,” and one hand pressed to Arin’s scar, he took Boromir’s mouth in a deep kiss.   
  
As they emerged breathless, Boromir said gruffly, “Please, do this for me.” A long moment Aragorn gazed at him, then he bowed his head and carefully replaced Boromir’s hands where they had been on the post. As Boromir shifted his stance wider, he fetched a flagon of sweet almond oil from beside the tub. Boromir knew that no amount of preparation would make this first time in an age, anything other than painful, but he had almost forgotten the aching pleasure that went along with it. He was sweating freely, rocking back against deep thrusts, when he felt Aragorn reach for his cock, swinging free. Boromir batted his hand away and behind him Aragorn groaned, wrapped an arm around his waist and laid his cheek to Boromir’s hair. His rhythm was becoming ragged, a low stream of Elvish sounded in Boromir’s ear and then he could feel his climax sweep over Aragorn in three or four great thrusts that took him up on the balls of his feet.   
  
When they untangled themselves and Boromir went to find a towel to dry them off, his erection still half-hard, Aragorn watched him closely, leaning back against the post, catching his breath. He stooped to pick up Boromir’s silk robe and as he passed it to him, receiving back the towel, said, “Let me take care of you. I promise I will not hurt you.” Boromir looked at him, smiled briefly and wrapped the robe around himself. “Later, I would lie quiet with you now.”   
  
As Boromir emerged out of sleep, he was lying on his back between Aragorn’s legs, body cradled in the other man’s arms. The moon was up, a true harvest moon, bathing them both in silver light. Aragorn was whispering words of love into his ear and when he saw Boromir was awake, curled sideways to kiss him, biting softly along the edge of Boromir’s lips, probing gently with his tongue.   
  
Boromir sighed and drew the tip into his mouth, and now they were able to taste one-another, Boromir finding the bitter tang of smoke on his love’s breath amidst the sweetness of the wine and the taste of Aragorn himself.   
  
Their love-making was unhurried, each content at the first to trace the planes of the other’s form; to shower kisses over eyelids, temples, jaw-lines, run a tongue along the curved line of an ear. Then Aragorn caught Boromir’s earlobe between his teeth and nipped hard and Boromir felt the sharp jag of pleasure travel all the way to his groin. He moaned deep in his chest, which Aragorn took for encouragement and half-turned him in his arms to lavish kisses down the length of his throat until he reached the rise of his collarbone, where he took in a mouthful of flesh and sucked hard to raise a purple blush brand on his love’s skin. Boromir writhed in his grasp, his hips lifting fractionally and straining to offer his prone body, to present more of his flesh to Aragorn, who opened the front of his robe, his fingers seeking, and finding, the swollen nipples.   
  
Urgent now, Aragorn shifted their positions, levering himself out from under Boromir to lie beside him, spreading the robe wide and burrowing with his face into the man’s chest. Boromir was dizzy, the heat of Aragorn’s breath, the scratch of his beard on his breast was causing feeling to rush to his groin and a familiar and a good ache began to spread outward from his cock, already grown half-hard. As Aragorn’s tongue circled his nipples, suckling and laving, nipping and pulling, the soft sounds in his throat became a mewling needy thread.

He was breathing shallow, the fear of pain being overwhelmed by the sensation of being swept along in this man’s hunger…and yet it was not an unthinking, savage, need to feed, for Aragorn took in a ragged breath and raised his head, his eyes drugged with sensation but a soft smile on his lips, wet and swollen . He brushed damp locks back from Boromir’s eyes and asked. “Is it well with you, lover?” to which Boromir could only reply with a nod and a ravenous kiss to his mouth, that left the Ranger breathless.

Aragorn gasped as they broke apart and laid his forehead on Boromir’s breast, saying “Let me do this for you.” Boromir stroked down his sweat-covered back and whispered “Aye” before he lay back and sank willingly into the moment. His nipples and his groin were aching, and as Aragorn swept down his body with soft kisses and bites, weaving his way amongst the tracery of silver scars, the throbbing grew in his swollen cock, now erect and purpling. Boromir could feel the pull on the skin of the sack, but there was no pain, only urgent pleasure and for the last time, slow tears began to run on his face.   
  
Aragorn’s mouth had reached his navel, where the tip of his tongue teased and dipped and then marked a broad wet trail down the join between leg and groin until his nose rested snug into the curls at the base of Boromir’s cock, damp with sweat. Boromir watched as Aragorn leant slowly forward and blew gently on the head, which twitched in greeting, tearing a groan from Boromir’s throat. The tip of Aragorn’s tongue came out and softly nuzzled at the slit, catching up the clear drops at its edge and spreading them over the head, before his mouth opened further to take it in. Boromir cried out in pleasure and Aragorn sucked greedily at his prize, working around the rim with his tongue whilst one hand held the shaft loosely, moving his hand slowly in time.   
  
There was an old tightness pooling in Boromir’s groin that could have been his coming beginning to build, but for a moment the fear of bloody tears in his flesh returned to him, so that he clutched at Aragorn’s shoulder, whispering “Wait! Aragorn, please.” Aragorn closed his eyes and let him go, rolled over onto his back panting, allowing his own erection to spring free and as Boromir’s breathing calmed beside him, he stroked himself lazily. Then he raised himself on his elbows and stretched over to catch up the jug of oil. Boromir took the oil from him and poured some into Aragorn’s palms, the men exchanged words unspoken and Aragorn pressed his hands together, before bending to kiss Boromir, letting him taste himself faintly, sweet and salt, in his mouth.   
  
Boromir took Aragorn’s hand in his and guided it to his straining cock and as Aragorn closed his oiled fist on him, a hot mouth with flickering tongue suckling at his breast, he lay back on the bed. Aragorn was working him slowly but firmly this time, so that Boromir could feel the waves of sensation spreading and building through every fibre and when more slick fingers swept below and behind his cock, not seeking entrance to his body, but stroking and pressing against tender flesh, he could barely suck in the air to stay conscious.   
  
He was keening softly and the tightening feeling had begun again in his groin, but now he dared to breathe into it and when the climax came pouring over him, he choked out his love’s name, feeling thick cream spatter on his stomach and chest. Aragorn leaned across him, trying to hold him down, to ensure that there was no unlucky pull on fragile skin and then bathed him slowly with his tongue, until Boromir could reach for him, to stroke Aragorn to completion and finally they slept. This time Aragorn lay between his legs, cradled in Boromir’s arms and their sleep was calm and deep, as though they knew that they had come home.   
  
After that time they had explored the edges of the possible in their love-making with more freedom. Aragorn had relished the return to the close heat of his lover’s body, nevertheless there had been some reticence until the day, months later, when Boromir, returned from a round of frustrating diplomacy, found his King waiting in his library, bent him over a sturdy table and took him; loved him with deep, urgent, strokes that drove Aragorn to the edge of delirium, and a savage grip on his hair, pulling his head back so that Boromir could whisper dark desires into his ear. And as they lay slumped on the floor regaining their breath, Boromir reached over to his pack, cast aside in the struggle, and brought out thin gold bracelets of Harad design to clasp around his love’s wrists and ankles.   
  
But the true mystery of it was that a few days later, one of the Harlond gardeners, crossing the orchard early, swore that he saw the Master through the morning mist, walking amidst the bee skips and talking to the bees.

  


  


**Author's Note:**

> This story has been edited from its first posting. It was originally written with two endings. The Cold Pressing AU emerges out of Pathway 1. The alternative ending/chapter is available for anyone interested at alex-quine.livejournal.com by going to the Profile page and linking to the Fic Index.


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